I know why most of the richest men in the world are bald... It's because they get to save all the money they would have spent on haircuts, inevitably becoming millionaires. Professional haircuts are expensive!
My hair was getting rediculously long, and I knew I needed to get a good cut, so I decided to go to Mike's Barbershop on mainstreet in Kaysville. Usually my mom cuts my hair, but since I moved out, I lost that little luxury. Rarely have I been to a legitimate extablishment and paid money for someone to remove hair from my head, and more rare still, have I walked away satisfied. It's the communication problem, that's what it is. No barber, stylist, or dog groomer I've come into contact knows what I mean when I say "short on the sides, a little longer on top." To them that phrase could mean a million different things, none of which share my meaning.
So, rather than submit my meager request, watch it get lost in translation, and sit there glumly while they sheared me like a lamb, I decided I would do a little research first. Having had a successful visit to the barber the day before, I thought my Dad would be a considerable resource.
"Pops, what should I ask for, at the barber?" I questioned.
"Well what kind of haircut do you want?" He asked. I thought this was quite obvious, seeing as I have sported the 'short spiky' look for about three years at least by now.
"I want this, three weeks ago," I stated, pointing at my scalp.
"Did you ask Mom?"
"Yeah, she told me to ask for the Mom-cut." I grumbled, as my Mom giggled in the background.
"Ah, well, just ask for a medium-taper, that's what I got yesterday," My dad advised, pausing so I could observe his style.
I looked his head over once or twice. Not bad, short on the sides, a little longer on top, okay. I tried to imagine my dad with spiked hair. Didn't work. But I decided to trust him and go for the medium taper.
I was confident now. Because now, I had knowledge, and knowledge is power. I knew the lingo, I got the slang. I could communicate what I wanted. No matter how bad things got--medium taper.
I walked into the barbershop, to see a smiling Mike giving a happy little kid a trim while his parents looked on smiling, proud of how good their son could sit. There was no music playing in the barbershop, it seemed desperately bare, empty. The walls were plastered with framed paintings, all with price tags and signed by a local artist. Five waiting chairs lined the wall. You're classic barbershop.
The kid finished, thanks and money interchanged, and they left. As soon as the shop door closed behind them, the Barber's smile vanished. As he vaccuumed excess hair off the chair he grumbled about how he "has no idea what 'just a little trim' means," and, in his opinion, they paid him to "cut the hair the kid grew while sitting in the chair." I liked this guy.
I sat in his chair, rehearsing the words "medium taper" in my mind, ready for the moment. Mike asked what he could do for me. "Ahem, a medium taper, please." (I sounded like I knew what a medium taper was, I was proud of myself. As soon as I said that he turned to grab his clippers and muttered "what the..." under his breath. Oh no.
"Are you sure, kid? That cut's not even from my generation," he said. I was doomed. My one shot at a good cut was gone. A couple seconds later I accepted my fate, and decided I would rather look like a committed fool than a wishy-washy one. "Yep, that's what I want."
So off he went, reluctantly, shaving away. I winced on the inside a lot. After he finished he spun my chair around so I could see what I looked like. I wanted to laugh, and wanted to cry. I asked him what he thought, and, to put it gently for me, he said "not unlike the young Eddie Munster."
"Well, could you make the sides a little shorter, and leave it a little longer on the top?" I asked meekly, firing my last proverbial escape pod.
"Sure thing," Mike said, as he spun me around and hacked away at my hair. As he hacked, we talked, about school mostly. Turns out this barber had a degree in physics. Crazy, eh?
A couple more minutes passed and he spun me around again. It looked perfect.
I couldn't understand it, he made me look how I did, three weeks ago. It was like magic. As he took a razorblade and started to shave my sideburns and neck, he struck up a rather odd conversation. While slowly pressing the cold razor to my face, he paused and asked "Have you ever seen the movie Sweeney Todd, by chance?" I chuckled nervously and said "haha the one about the crazy killer barber?"
"That's the one, a good show," he laughed darkly as he tilted my head to shave the back of my neck. "This is the part of the haircut where my clients become my best friends, haha...." he laughed again. He had a great sense of humor.
He cleaned me off and gave me the charge. As I paid him, he looked at my hair and said "So it was just a regular hair cut you wanted, not that taper-garbage-whatever you said."
"Yeah, truth be told that's what my dad told me to get," I confessed.
"Haha, I know kid, I know. Have a good day."
